DAMN, This Seesaw Makes Me Feel Good
by Craziness-n-love
Summary: Starring Jesse and Paul and a seesaw. oneshot for mediator challenge


**Hey Guys! This story was written for the Mediator Monthly Challenge. Check it out in the Mediator Forum on this site.**

**- xx mel.**

"Oh, _please_, Jesse," I snort, nudging him playfully along his ribcage. "Don't tell me you've never been on a seesaw in your life!"

He blinks, but his are filled with blank, unsuspecting innocence.

"Never?" I gape, once again. "When you were a kid, you know? You never had seesaw contests with your sisters, or whatever?"

"Susannah, I didn't play with..." he shakes his head, looking like he's confused as to why he's even saying the word, "these... _seesaws_. I began working on my father's ranch when I was eleven-years-old. And before that," he continues earnestly, "I helped out the stable hands." His triumphant smile is bursting with pride.

I interject before he can fall into nostalgic daydreams. "Jeez, Jesse, that's gotta be the most pathetic childhood ever."

As predicted, offense is painted across his perfect face as he leans in, apparently combating himself into confrontation pose, to prove me wrong. "Oh?" he counters.

"_Yeah._"

"OH?"

"CH-YEAH."

"OH?"

"YE-"

"Susannah, this is positively juvenile."

"It was YOUR idea," I mumble righteously.

"I propose a challenge." Jesse puffs out his chest and raises an eyebrow, appearing stunningly sexy in his attempt to be confrontational.

"Talk to me, Hector," I throw right back at him, pulling myself up to my very tallest height - still a good six inches shorter than Jesse. I curse my mother's fairly small build that had obviously passed on to me, just because inheriting the tall genes would be too damn much trouble, now wouldn't it?

"Let's go test this _seesaw_ apparatus," his eyes glint up mischievously. "And then I'll tell you whether my childhood would have been better wiled away on playground equipment."

I purse my lips. Jesse narrows his eyes. I cross my arms. Jesse raises an eyebrow.

"Deal." I hold out my hand and he encloses it in his own, binding the terms. He's already smirking, certain that he's got a guaranteed win.

"Don't start your sniggering, De Silva," I warn, waggling my finger in his direction.

He shrugs innocently, until the children's playground comes into view. Jesse snorts.

We assemble ourselves in front of the seesaw. Through his self-assured demeanor, I know I can sense regretful apprehension.

"Well, Jesse. This is The Seesaw," I introduce him solemnly.

"It's a plank of wood," Jesse comments, deadpan.

"Shut up, big shot ranch boy."

"It's a wonder I put up with your insults, you know."

I'm about to retort, but a sweetly mocking voice gets there first. "Well, well. Look at what we've got here! Suze and Jesse, having a nice romantic swing on the seesaw, with all the other six-year-olds," Paul's charismatic voice interrupts us.

"Whoa, dude. Freaky coincidence. What the hell are you doing here?" I ask bluntly, genuinely curious.

"What, a guy can't go for a walk though the park?" His voice is dripping with artificial guiltlessness.

"You're a strange, strange man, Slater," I glare.

He thumps his chest. "That's why they love me," he shrugs.

"Enough now," Jesse interjects, "are we going to proceed with this ludicrously foolish bet of yours?"

Paul raises his eyebrows. "And what's this bet on?"

I snicker. "Jesse thinks seesaws are ridiculous apparatuses meant to suck out children's brains and wile away their childhood. He seriously thinks he can take a ride on old seesaw here and still think that his childhood was better spent scooping horse poop."

Paul joins in my glee. "Aw, man, you're gonna die," he informs Jesse.

I pat Jesse's hand consolingly, before he can combust out of sheer frustration.

Paul suddenly turns thoughtful. "Hey, I've got an idea."

Now, Jesse and I are both apprehensive. "Oh _Dios_," Jesse mutters.

"How about," he pauses for dramatic effect, "_I_ challenge Jesse."

He cuts off my, "Hell no," and Jesse's, "How about _not_," calmly. "Think about it – Mr. Gentleman here is going to be so preoccupied with not bouncing Suze too high and damaging her perfect little ass," insert death glare from Jesse's end, "that he won't get the full seesaw experience."

I raise my eyebrows. The guy has a point.

"Slater, go-," Jesse starts, but before he can finish telling Paul exactly where he should go, he was interrupted again. "Look, _de Silva,_" Paul borderline spat at Jesse. "Don't be such a _wuss._ I mean, really. The only possible reason you won't do challenge ME is because you're just _too scared_, aren't you, Spanish boy? You're too afraid you're going to lose to me, and that just scares you down to your tacky brown shoes, doesn't it?"

Paul was really pushing Jesse's buttons. I step up to stop them before they begin pummeling each other on the spot and Paul comes out with another broken nose (I did feel the tiniest bit of sympathy for his poor nose. It was going to be maimed far beyond the point of repair if it kept breaking at this rate).

"Alright,_Slater,"_ Jesse spat right back. "I'll challenge you to… to… to the_seesaw_. Watch me kick your sorry ass."

"Damn, Jesse," I mumble proudly, "You've learned a lot from me, haven't you?"

Jesse and Paul stood on opposite sides of the seesaw, their previous audacity now well done away with and replaced with terrified tentativeness.

"Go on, Slater," Jesse challenges. "Get on it."

Paul crosses his arms, snorting. "Me? No YOU get on it."

"I don't recall anything about me having to get on it first."

"I don't recall anything about ME having to get on it first."

"I get it. You're scared that I'll beat you. Well, rest assured, Slater, because I will."

"Yeah, de Silva, but I'm not gonna get a chance to prove your pretentious Latino self wrong unless you sit on the fucking seesaw."

"Language, Slater. We're in a children's park."

I decide it's time for an interjection, "That might explain why you're both acting like babies."

I hold up my hand in a very dictatorial fashion before they can rouse their protests. "How about," I speak with the tone of a mom teaching the alphabet to her three-year-old, "you _both_ get on the seesaw _at the same time_."

"_Fine,_" they give in simultaneously, glaring at each other on either side of the seesaw.

"Hands on," I order. Their hands grip the handles with such force it's a wonder they don't just break off. It's rather hilarious to see them like this – glaring at each other with such seriousness, in a park where the biggest slide reaches their shoulders.

"I'm gonna kick your ass all the way back to the 1800's, de Silva," Paul warns, daring Jesse to retort.

He does. "I'm gonna kick your ass all the way to the hospital, Slater. With severely chronic breakage."

"Ready?" They nod, facing each other. "One," they swing back and forth on their feet, shooting defiant glares at each other. "Two," their knuckles turn white from clutching the handle bars, "Three!"

It happens in slow motion. Jesse jumps, Paul jumps; they both land on the seesaw with a thump loud enough to chase away any remaining rugrats wiling away in the park.

And then they were off. Up and down and up and down and up and down – until the only thing I could make out was a big blur.

"De Silva!" Paul shouts, trying to be heard above the thumping of the seesaw.

"Slater!"

"How're you enjoying THIS, Spanish boy?"

He was answered with a louder _thump_and the pace of the seesaw increasing to the point where I couldn't even see _anything_. I stand watching, marveling at how testosterone can be taken to such dynamic levels.

After five minutes, I attempt talking to them. "Um… guys? Paul? Jesse?"

My answer is two grunts.

After ten minutes, I'm beginning to get impatient. "… Alright, guys," I laugh nervously. "I think we've just about filled our seesaw quota for the day, hmm?"

More grunts.

After twenty minutes of nonstop seesawing, I shout, "GUYS! There are OTHER LITTLE BABIES waiting to get on the seesaw, you know!" There is not another soul in the park.

This time, I get a 'not _now_, Suze,' grunt, and a 'come on, hold up for s'more,' grunt.

I plop down on the woodchips, pouting. After God knows how long, I finally begin to notice a gradual slowing down in the seesaw.

They're certainly a sight to see after they stagger off the seesaw and fall onto the woodchips - hair sticking up in all directions, flustered and red-faced, and panting for air.

"Damn, Jesse," Paul starts.

"Wow…" Jesse finishes.

"That was…"

"… _intense_, man."

"God…"

"I never knew…"

"Powerful, dude."

They sound awestruck beyond belief.

"That was like, thrilling…"

"Tell me about it."

"Like, exhilarating."

"Damn right."

"_Amazing_."

I don't tell them they sound like two lovers just finishing a passionate sexual experience.

I cough, probably ruining the intimacy of the moment, but at this point, I don't really care. "Still here, guys," I inform them, "and there's a better time and place to continue your erotic fantasies."

"You bet there is," Paul breathes dazedly.

"Tomorrow morning, right here – be there?"

"_Hell_ yeah."

And then, I witness something I'm almost 99.999 sure is a delusion induced by the sheer number of sharp woodchips digging into my ass.

Jesse and Paul man-slam each other. The detail was perfect – they hold out their hands, high-five each other (!!!), and proceed to hurl their chests together. I'm quite sure I stood there for a full minute, blinking, flummoxed.

After Jesse and Paul finish their elaborate parting regime, I pull Jesse aside with a very pressing question.

"Jesse," I begin warily, "you aren't going gay on me, are you?"

He hesitates for a horribly heart-stopping billionth of a second in which I feel panic so severe I almost combust on the spot, "No, Susannah. I just happen to like that _seesaw_ apparatus very, very, very much. It gives me this feeling, you know?"

That's when I conclude something is truly wrong with my life – when Jesse decides that seesaws give him more sexual stimulation than I do.

Oh dear _Lord._


End file.
